Sword Saint

by Michael Wallace

  “It isn’t panic. It’s realism. Lord Balint is pressing us to the north, and you know what he’ll think when he hears of our defeat and of his enemy’s death.”

  “I can hazard a guess. He’ll want the lot of it.”

  “Zoltan’s heirs are weak. His wife is no warrior, his sons too young to take power. There’s a cousin, but he’s a cruel man, the sort who would make trouble on the borders, which this land can hardly afford.”

  “If that’s the way your master felt, why did he send those so-called brigands over my border in the first place? Why did the fool not concentrate on the threat to his north?” Damanja waved a hand. “Never mind. So you, what? You want to beg for mercy, to pay me an indemnity for the raids across the border, and then turn your attention to fighting off Balint?”

  “The inevitable result is that Zoltan’s cousin becomes the new crowlord. He’s too strong already, and Zoltan’s heirs too young to fight him. You’ll have trouble at your border again soon enough. Who do you think stirred it up in the first place? Zoltan’s cousin, is who.”

  “It little matters what the fellow does—assuming you’re telling true,” Damanja said. “Because this fiefdom is unlikely to stand. Balint has some assistance, doesn’t he? I expect him to make use of it.”

  Miklos hid his smile and instead let a grave expression settle onto his face. “Nobody knows why the bladedancers are here. But their weapons are a terrible concern. More than your army, in fact. That’s how Zoltan died, why he left the battlefield. He was trying to stop the weapons from reaching the enemy.”

  “What are you carrying, what’s that weapon?”

  “A gift from the bladedancer rivals. And now I want to offer it to you.”

  “You’re giving me a sword?”

  “A falchion made by the warbrand temple, my lord. The best they’ve offered to an outsider in generations. I understand that you’re a skilled fighter already. What might you do with this weapon in hand?”

  Something flickered in her gaze, a look of greed. Even the famously practical Lady Damanja was not immune to avarice. She reached out a hand, then withdrew it.

  “It’s a two-handed weapon. Too heavy for me. But perhaps one of my commanders. . .” Disappointment lingered in her expression.

  “Not this one, my lord.”

  He unwrapped the thongs and removed the sword from its covering of kidskin. The weapon’s aura lifted into the air like a shimmering, glowing mist.

  Damanja’s eyes widened at the long, gleaming blade of the warbrand falchion, and widened even more when she took it in her hand and felt how lightly it rested there. She grasped it with both hands and moved into a stance, not without skill, he thought. The weapon itself would make her more skilled, still. Better than Zoltan with his battle-axe, he thought.

  “The sword is yours, my lord. Together with this gift, I offer command of Zoltan’s land, and the wealth and power that comes with it. Mastery over our armies.”

  She licked her lips and stared at the sword. It took visible effort to tear away her gaze, but gradually, her expression steadied. “You want something for this. What is it?”

  “I want to be named as your second-in-command. To lead armies, not only Zoltan’s, but yours, as well.”

  “So pure ambition, is that it? Born a commoner, grasping for what is not yours by birth. You are a rapacious one, aren’t you?”

  He almost laughed; that a crowlord should accuse others of being predatory and grasping was the height of irony. Also, he noted that for all the disdain in her words, Damanja did not hand back the falchion.

  “I’m ambitious enough,” he admitted. In an offer otherwise layered with as much lie as truth, this was the most accurate thing he’d said yet. “Under other circumstances I might battle Zoltan’s widow and cousin and see if the crows would follow me. But I’d fall just the same as they would—Balint is too strong, and will soon grow stronger still with the bladedancer weapons in hand.”

  “And?”

  “I want to stop Lord Balint Stronghand. To do that, I’ll throw in my lot with you. In return, it will be my leadership, my armies. Men will bow to me, and I will bow to no other but you. You’ll find me very loyal.”

  If word of his ambition had been the truest part, this last statement was his purest lie. If Lady Damanja accepted the warbrand sword, just as Lord Zoltan had accepted the warbrand battle-axe, he would soon enough see her follow her rival into death.

  She nodded. “Very well, Miklos. I’ll keep the sword. Open the gates of your towns and your castles. Deliver Lord Zoltan’s army and lands, and you will be my general and executor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Andras and Ruven spent three days crossing Zoltan’s fiefdom. They crossed the post road north of a burning watchtower that cast flames into the sky, kept a wary eye on a second volcano that was belching smoke and rock, and hid on several occasions when they crossed the path of soldiers and brigands. The soldiers were more numerous than the brigands, but also less likely to cut down the ratter and his son to steal a few coins. After the experience that had led to the death of one of his dogs, however, he was taking no chances.

  Ruven kept asking about Skinny Lad. Was he all right? Would the bladedancers bring him north to Riverrun? And would they give him back when they arrived?

  Yes, yes, and of course. What did Narina and her companions need of a scrawny lurcher anyway? She’d be relieved to return the dog to his rightful owners.

  Notch was walking again by the second day, but both the boy and the dogs suffered from Digger’s loss. Ruven would get a far-off look in his eyes, which watered silently as he fought back sniffles. Notch and the other dogs seemed fine until the time came to bed down in a dry ditch or abandoned barn, and then they would circle as a pack, sniffing each other and licking snouts, and came to Andras whining anxiously. He scratched their ears and used his most soothing voice, but it didn’t settle them.

  Andras felt the loss, too, but he had too many other worries to linger on this one. Every sign of brigands reminded him of the horror of losing Terezia, and every soldier of the attack that had killed Digger and could easily have destroyed them all, if not for the arrival of an even more violent company of men.

  The danger didn’t end when they entered territory controlled by Lord Balint. Stronghand’s army had crossed the Vestanovul at Riverrun, and though these latest troops were ostensibly on the same side as Andras, an army on the move was always dangerous.

  The ratter, his son, and the dogs had gained the banks of the Vestanovul itself, making their way cautiously toward the fords, with Andras trying to work out how to present himself for the crossing, when an arrow came whizzing through the air and buried itself in the turf at Ruven’s feet. The boy stared down at the arrow with a look of stunned incomprehension, and a second arrow zipped past, this one nearly impaling one of the terriers, who yelped in alarm and shot away at a run.

  Andras looked desperately around. A group of eight or ten archers stood on a hillock about seventy or eighty yards away, together with a number of others who were hauling logs to build a sort of palisade or defended camp. The archers, spotting lowborn travelers, had decided on a little target practice. Several were laughing, while two others notched their bows for another go.

  Andras whistled a shrill order to follow, collared Ruven, and dove for the reeds growing in the marshes. Shouted jeers greeted their actions, but no more arrows followed. The bored soldiers seemed unwilling to risk losing arrows by firing into the muck. Andras led them crawling for several minutes until he thought they were beyond range of the archers, and then several minutes more before he dared poke his head up and look around.

  “I thought you said we were in Stronghand’s lands, Da.”

  “This side of the river is—was—Zoltan’s land. But the army crossed over, so yes, those men serve our lord.”

  “Then why are they shooting at us?”

  Because we’re nobodies, he thought. We don’t exist except to amuse men wit
h swords and spears.

  Not true. Lord Balint protected his people. And if he found out what had happened to his trusted vassal and spy, he’d be furious.

  “They don’t know,” he answered. “They think we’re Zoltan’s people, and they didn’t care anyway.”

  “But we weren’t doing anything. Couldn’t you explain who we are?”

  Andras had no answer to that. None that wouldn’t diminish him in Ruven’s eyes. They continued on until dusk, more warily than ever, and after weighing matters a good deal, he decided to wait until morning to approach the fords, when he’d be less likely to fall under attack by Balint’s forces holding the river crossing. He’d do it alone, without the boy or the dogs.

  The next morning, he left them hiding in a copse of willow trees, with strict instructions not to move from that place until he returned. He continued alone and groped toward Balint’s lines, not without a good deal of fear. All too soon he found them.

  There was a tense moment when men with spears challenged his approach. He shouted that he was Balint’s man, and brought important news from the south. As proof, he held out the brass ring he’d been wearing on his middle finger for the last several weeks. It showed the crow with a war hammer in its claw that was their lord’s sigil.

  The men passed the ring around and discussed the verity of the ratter’s claim as if he weren’t present. One man suggested it was a ruse, and laughingly suggested tossing the ratter into the swift current below the fords and pummeling him with rocks as he bobbed downstream. It would be great sport.

  But they were only having fun at his expense. In the end, one of them sent off for a lieutenant, who returned a few minutes later astride a horse. He looked down at the ratter with a dark, serious gaze. Finally, he snapped his fingers and told the men to hoist Andras into the saddle.

  Andras grabbed hold of the saddle and held on as they rode east along the river. He kept thinking about Ruven, and wondered how long the boy would stay in place if he didn’t return. More than an hour later, they pulled up short at a small fortress.

  It consisted of a single tower and a keep encircled by a wall. Dozens of similar fortresses lined the Vestanovul on both banks, with many of them fallen into ruins, cut off in oxbows, or too far from the water after the river had jumped its banks in floods and settled down again on a new course. This one was in good position, still trim and maintained, except for the roof of the tower, which was charred from a recent attack.

  The interior had been looted, probably by Balint’s army, with tapestries ripped from walls, furniture smashed into heaps, and blood still splattered on the flagstones. The lieutenant led Andras in to where Lord Balint was engaged in earnest discussion with a serious-looking man wearing an unusual red-and-black cape and an ornamental silver gorget on a chain around his neck. The man was shorter than Balint, and carried a long, slender sword sheathed at his back, smaller and more elegant in appearance than Miklos’s falchion.

  At the sound of footsteps, Balint turned, face alarmed, as if he’d been set upon by assassins. “Demons and demigods, I gave instructions that—” His eyes took in the ratter, and a warm smile came over his face. “Andras, my friend! You’ve returned. By God, I hope you bring good news. You,” he added to the lieutenant, “leave us. Return to your post.”

  The lieutenant frowned. No doubt he wanted recognition after riding such a distance. “Yes, my liege.” He pressed the brass ring with the hammer-wielding crow into Andras’s palm and tromped out of the room.

  “Come. Tell me your news, my loyal friend.”

  Andras’s face flushed as the warmth of loyalty washed over him. It almost made him choke up. He owed this man his son’s life, rescued from brigands, but there was more. What other man in Lord Balint’s position would address a dirty, bedraggled ratter in such a way?

  He spoke rapidly, beginning with Miklos’s attack on the bladedancer temple. By the time he started into an account of the man’s defeated return for his horses and remaining riders, he was rambling with exhaustion and a desire to explain how Zoltan’s failed attempt led Narina and the others to abandon their mountain home.

  Balint chuckled, rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, and told him to slow down. Andras nodded and found his tongue again. He told the lord about the volcano, the circle of pitch on the road, and the demons.

  Here, the stranger with the red-and-black cape interrupted. His voice was smooth, his accent foreign. Sounded a little like the bladedancer accent except even thicker, the vowels longer and more liquid.

  “Was there a shape like this in the middle of the circle?” The stranger used a finger to draw across his palm, a triangle shape with two upturned marks like horns.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Balint glanced at the other man before turning back to Andras with a nod. “Go on.”

  As Andras did, he found his gaze wandering back to the stranger. A foreigner, certainly. But from where? The man had high cheekbones and light brown hair, with a pale complexion. Someone from the far north of the islands, or perhaps from the other side of the mountains. Not from the eastern plains, he didn’t think.

  A few years ago this sort of questioning wouldn’t have occurred to him. Men like this one, with their swords and their rings, their offices and privileges, were to be avoided at all costs. Let a ratter work his trade from one crowlord’s lands to the next, never falling under the attention of armed men, tax collectors, or brigands.

  But spying for Lord Balint had trained his eye. He took a closer look at the sword, long and slender and elegant. And there was something else. The man wasn’t wearing boots. He was barefoot, and there were red and black curlicues, like wandering vines, tattooed across his feet.

  “Go on,” Balint said, and Andras realized he’d fallen silent right when he got to the part about Lady Damanja’s soldiers killing his dog.

  The stranger noticed his stare and held Andras’s gaze with a cool, lizard-like expression until he looked away and fumbled back into his story, including where Zoltan had come through with his riders, on their way to attack Narina, Kozmer, and Gyorgy and steal the weapons.

  I know who you are, Andras thought.

  The man was a firewalker. From the Blade Temple of the Elegant Sword. Similar to the bladedancers and the warbrands, the firewalkers lived in their temple school high in the mountains, where the ice and snow of the dragon demigods battled with the demons pouring out of the volcanoes.

  “How certain are you that the dog warned them?” Balint asked when Andras reached that part.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “But I think so. Yes, almost certainly, my lord.”

  “All the same, could Zoltan have taken the weapons?” the crowlord continued, and Andras was about to respond that he had no idea, when he realized the question was directed to the firewalker.

  “No,” the other man said. “Not if she got warning.”

  “Zoltan had a lot of men.” Balint didn’t sound convinced. “And word has it he’s carrying a weapon of great power.”

  “A battle-axe forged in the warbrand temple,” the other man said. “A superior weapon that would best anything the bladedancers have sold you. But it’s no match for the woman’s twinned blades. And Zoltan is no master of the sword temples, regardless of what weapon he carries.”

  “You still mean to challenge her when she arrives?” Balint asked.

  The firewalker’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “But if she’s such a warrior, if she can defeat Zoltan and two hundred riders. . .”

  “Narina received warning from the dog before the attack. She’d have felt the auras shaking when the men arrived. She will have none of those warnings when I welcome her to Riverrun.”

  The firewalker reached over his shoulder and touched the pommel of his sword. A chill ran down Andras’s spine.

  Once again, his betters were speaking in front of him as if he weren’t there, sharing the sort of detail that they’d have never spread
in front of captains or lieutenants or wealthy merchants. Balint, at least, should know better. He’d trained Andras in the art of spying, after all, and knew it wasn’t just a simple ratter standing in front of him, but a man who could carefully observe and report.

  A man who could give warnings when warnings were urgently needed. Such as to Narina and her companions. A man such as Andras could do such a thing.

  No, you’re wrong. Your master doesn’t dismiss you for a reason. He speaks so openly because he knows you are loyal, that you owe him everything. Even your own life, if he asks it.

  This stranger, this firewalker, was planning to ambush Narina and her companions. Someone could warn her, let her know that her life was in danger. Someone really should.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be Andras.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Don’t get too attached to that mutt,” Narina told Gyorgy. “With any luck he’ll be off our hands as soon as we reach Riverrun.”

  Gyorgy was walking ahead of Narina and the cart, scratching Skinny Lad’s ears. The dog panted happily at the contact, and when Gyorgy stopped a moment later, he turned his head up and leaned against the boy’s leg insistently. They’d bathed the scroungy-looking beast twice along the way, picked out burrs, and trimmed his nails. Fed him plenty too—the beast had an endless appetite.

  Yet there was no changing his inherent nature. He loved jumping in the mud, and it was hard to keep him from bounding after a rabbit or squirrel, and returning with a jaunty step, blood on his muzzle. He whined when they passed rat holes in the side of rice paddy berms, but there were no terriers around to dig up something for him to chase, so rabbits and squirrels it was.

  Narina kept pace with Brutus, who trudged along peacefully for once, with only the occasional grunt to remind them that he was not pleased with this endless trek, pulling the cursed cart. Kozmer had cleared a space in the cart and was lying down. Not asleep though; Narina could sense his mind working.

  She’d been turning over his words about the sword saint. It seemed mythical, the sort of thing mentioned in meditations and lessons that had no practical ramifications. Semi-legends from generations past, when the battles of fire demons and demigod dragons turned the mountains into a wasteland of ice and fire. When the lowland plains had no lords, when bandits, assassins, and brigands ruled the land, and every man and woman slept with a sword beneath their pillow.